


blood run stale

by bluehasnoclues



Series: harry potter oneshot/shortfics [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Neville Longbottom, Gen, Harry gets the love he deserves, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Not Beta Read, One Shot, demon!neville, my first directly inspired fic, neville and harry are like, super bros here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-04-23 16:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19154965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehasnoclues/pseuds/bluehasnoclues
Summary: When they told him the terms of his release, it took only a moment of thought. To begin penance for all he had done, to take the first step toward the light - he had agreed without hesitation. This was one choice that he would not regret.And thus he was born, remade into a newer, weaker body, so unlike the one that he'd held for millennia.Where Neville is actually a millennia-old being of unimaginable power, confined in human form.





	blood run stale

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Light in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060710) by [TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel). 



> this started as a prompt  
> then it became an outline  
> then it got dialogue  
> my prompt is a fic now guys i'm not sure what happened????

He didn't pretend to be normal. He didn't pretend to be anything other than exactly what he was. People were sometimes unnerved by the young boy’s watchful gaze, the way his eyes seemed to follow their movements with the recognition present in someone who'd lived a long life. He didn't speak much, and when he spoke the words were tremulous, almost scared but not quite - more as if he was an avalanche forced through a tunnel, and small pebbles and bits of dust were the only thing to make it through.

He showed signs of his magic from a very young age - but only once, in a single isolated occasion. It was enough that they began to doubt, because this boy might as well be a muggle, if not for the time that he saved his parent’s minds. He did something to Bellatrix, something that no one could quite explain, and that no one quite wanted to. The thought of her eyes - dull and blank and fixed on a single point in the distance, so at odds with her manic display moments before - made them shiver and move on, because there was something _ancient_ that didn’t welcome their dwelling curiosity.

He did not play with the other children so much as humor them. His parents couldn't quite shake the feeling that he was humoring all of them, even if no, that’s ridiculous, our Neville? of course not, even though the slight smile that teased on the corners of his lips when he thought that no one was watching spoke of distant amusement, not childlike joy. He smiled freely and often, but it wasn’t for years that his parents realised that their son's smiles were more of obligation than true happiness. They began to understand the first time he was left alone in the garden, and the expression on his face was like those they had seen often before, but not quite. It was softer, perhaps, or more vulnerable.

It was difficult to unsee after that. They didn’t bother. They were Frank and Alice Longbottom - they would not cower from their own son.

Too soon, Voldemort was haunting their allies, knocking down their doors and painting his mark above their homes. The Potters perished but they took the nameless figure with them. Frank and Alice stopped the Headmaster in his tracks as he went to deliver the child Potter to his muggle relatives, because we already have Neville, Albus, I think we know how to raise a child and we’ll be sure to do it right, there’s no need to rely on unknown variables.

Soon their son had a brother, if not in blood then in name, if not in name then in spirit. They were equal in age but when together, Neville seemed decades older, more than a parent than a friend. He humored Harry as he had the other children. He did not pretend to like the situation, but he did not reject it, and he took care of Harry as if the orphaned boy had been his true brother all along.

They were surprised, yet not, when they heard a scream and ran into Harry's room to find Neville sitting at his bedside, hushing him softly and murmuring kind words in the scared boy’s ear. They were not at all surprised when Harry clung to Neville for the rest of the day, because despite their son’s oddness, there was something calming about being under his hand.

(They chose not to ask why, because they didn’t want to know, not really. The unsettling presence that their son seemed to emit unconsciously already wasn’t usual, and the way he seemed to smother that presence and consciously project _calm_ and _trust_ and _safe_ was even less. It tugged on something in the backs of their minds, in a place that they purposely chose to ignore.)

The boys received their letters at the same time. It was dinner and they were eating food that Neville had helped make - he’d been spending more and more time in the garden, and so Alice had decided to make the time productive - the curtains parting gently for the soft sound of owl’s wings. They were eleven.

They each received their own wands from Ollivander and studiously ignored the strange and knowing looks from the elder man. Alice was tempted to comment, but she refrained, because the wandmaker would continue with or without her approval.

Both were sorted into Hufflepuff, the House of the loyal. Yellow ties caught the firelight as they drank pumpkin juice and smiled warmly, exchanged conversation with new friends and paved a seven-year path. Harry was happy and Neville was content.

Classes went well, save for potions. Potions was a disaster. Neville felt anger rising in him that he hadn’t felt in decades, as Harry stuttered and stumbled and blushed, embarrassed by his knowledge (or perceived lack thereof). Neville rose to his defense with half a thought. He did not move from his seat; he did not speak a word.

Their bitter professor looked into Neville’s eyes and made the better choice. He did not target Harry for the rest of the year. Neville was satisfied until he head of the professor’s infamous reputation in the other Houses, in the first-year classes. He made a decision, then - he would not let this man torment young children, because he himself had done that too many times, and it bore down heavily on his soul.

“You will stop,” he told his professor one day. His eyes burned with the power of years gone, of an infinite being trapped in a flesh cage. However willing his captivity might have been, his nature would always show. He would never hide it.

His professor did not argue, because some fights are lost before they are even conceived.

Neville spent his nights around the castle. His body did not need sleep the way that others’ did, and he saw little point in laying only to lay. He wandered without direction, listening for his steps on the stone floors, because his footfalls never made sound but they might someday.

He found a man with two faces and promptly decided that no such thing should exist. They were gone in the next breath and Neville felt no regret. He found a snake as large as his home and thought that it ought to be free, but its mind was broken from a millennium of solitude and he would not risk the chance. Instead he brought a blanket for his body’s comfort and game from the forest and proceeded to talk with open eyes. It could speak to him and he could speak to it, and it could not freeze his body because his soul would melt away the restrictions as quickly as they had been enforced.

His first year ended as quietly as it could, with his brother as a first-year seeker and children with petty rivalries and upper levels that had to learn their place the more unpleasant way. Slytherin won the House Cup but Hufflepuff felt victorious - they were second in the running, after all, even with the blatant favoritism that certain professors liked to entertain.

Their summer was bright and hot and it reminded Neville of a place to where he’d rather not return, but his days were filled with seeing his parents’ smiles and listening to his brother’s laughter, so the comparison was increasingly easy to ignore.

Voldemort tried again next year, but Neville ensured that his soul had only barely passed the Hogwarts wards before it was destroyed.

In third year, he killed Sirius Black before he could speak, and felt only marginally guilty when later, Peter confessed the truth. Neville would never regret protecting his brother, regardless of what it entailed.

That resolve was tried again a year later, during the Triwizard Tournament, when he found himself walking into the room of Champions and moving to stand next to his brother.

“He will not be competing,” Neville announced.

“It is a magically binding contract,” one of the men said, tone implacable, and Neville didn’t bother to recall his name.

“He will not be competing,” he said again. “Or I will destroy the Goblet itself.”

The adults in the room collectively spluttered.

“Listen here, young man -”

Neville walked out with Harry at his side, and a week later, when it was firmly and clearly stated that _all four Champions drawn will be called to compete in the Tournament,_ the Goblet’s flames turned on itself and the impressive gold was reduced to liquid, then ashes. His brother looked at him with wide eyes that Neville didn’t bother to acknowledge.

With the focus of the binding gone, the contract was void, and there would be only three Champions once more.

Voldemort returned in body, if not in soul, that spring, and Neville’s ancient heart ached. It did not ease as he slaughtered the wraith of a man because the end of such torment was near but not near enough.

His next hurdle was their new professor, a bumbling woman draped in shades of pink. She tutted and _hmed_ and when that did not meet her satisfaction, she carved her words into their hands. He was not a good person and he would never pretend to be, and despite this being a chance for change and forgiveness, Neville did not bother with mercy. She died, too, but it was quick and painless. (If she had hurt his brother, that would have looked entirely different, but she did not and there was no reason to dwell on supposes.)

The next professor that the Ministry sent was competent, at least, if a bit condescending; he followed the provided text and grumbled through the practical portion of the class, but he did not dare so much as look at his students with intent to harm.

(If he was ever asked, the professor might have mentioned a strange boy, one who seemed expectedly young and impossibly old, with fire in his eyes and a deadly threat in his gaze. No one thought to ask.)

The year ended quietly. That summer, the dreams began. Harry woke crying, screaming, words unintelligible but filled with unmistakable terror. His family recognised the feeling equally, albeit in different forms; Alice through the pain of her family, Frank through the pain of his friends, and Neville through himself, Before.

Neville held his brother close. It wasn't enough. Before the year began, Alice went to Dumbledore; for moments, Neville felt familiar fury rising in his chest, but it quickly dissipated. Their mother was feeling the same helplessness that made its home in all of their hearts, and he would never blame her for wanting to protect Harry - his brother, her son.

Dumbledore's suggestion begged for immediate refusal, but the old man's theory forced it into something reasonable. Voldemort in his brother's mind, corrupting his thoughts and invading his dreams: a form of torture that the self-proclaimed lord perhaps took pride in, for its delicacy and required skill.

Neville's hands twitched with not-quite-forgotten memories of blood and screams and laughter. Not for the first time (or the second, or the countless times after that -) the reasons for his rebirth were less than appealing. What use was forgiveness when his family was in danger?

What good were clean hands if they meant his brother woke screaming?

So instead of rejecting the Headmaster's suggestion, he accompanied his brother to Remedial Potions. Snape scowled, no less thrilled than they were, and it was with an unspoken truce that they continued.

It was too obvious that their efforts would amount to little; "Clear your minds," Snape instructed, "and defend it against me." Neville's own natural barrier was hellfire, and it was a wall he could not construct in the presence of true humans for fear of their complete and utter destruction. He would gladly watch Voldemort descend into madness as his mind burned, but their professor was an ally and Neville would not risk Harry's safety.

Amidst one of their sessions, a girl came in, smiling softly with hazy eyes. "Professor," she greeted Snape mildly. "I had a question about last week's homework, where -"

"Not now, Miss Lovegood," the dour professor replied tiredly, resigned exhaustion settling into his features. "Speak to me during office hours." They'd never heard him speak so cordially with a student, not even one of his own Slytherins, and it was almost surreal to watch. The girl named Lovegood nodded, then turned to walk out; she stopped in front of Harry with a small frown on her face.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, her gaze sliding to Neville. "But at least you have him." Neville wasn't sure which one of them she was talking to; he wasn't sure that he wanted to, which was rare in of itself. The girl left. (Neville never learned her first name.)

After, their Occlumency lessons proceeded uneventfully. Harry wasn't much better at the art than his brother, despite Snape's best efforts. Despite the man being reluctant in his teachings, he proved to be a surprisingly effective instructor when his focus wasn't on berating his students.

It was not enough for the both of them; not nearly enough for protection against the terror threatening Harry. Neville resolved to find another way, with this particular avenue exhausted. He pondered the question for all of an hour before coming to a single conclusion:

He would have to kill Voldemort himself. To do that, he would have to discover the secret to the lord's immortality, rip the secret to shreds, and kill the man that remained. Simple enough.

He'd long since decided that morals were of little importance when it came to the wellbeing of his family, and so he drew the symbols on the floor and spoke in the ancient language that hadn't passed mortal lips for centuries and stepped back and the ground split and the screaming was just barely audible.

His comrades greeted him with sharp smiles full of rotting, razor teeth.

"There is a man," said Neville to the hoard of demons, "whom you would very much like to meet."

Their smiles widened.

Exactly six days later, three of them scuttled into the Great Hall during dinner; one held a silver diadem in its spindly claws, one a golden cup in its gagged teeth, and one a ring on its shredded, blackened finger.

Neville wanted to smile at them in turn, but the stares made him pause; they were not invisible, here, with one of their own on mortal land. His hand made a movement that they would recognise (Lord Lucifer's gesture for _if you don't leave, you will live a very, very painful existence_ _)_ , one which ensured compliance to the nth degree. Their eyes widened as they nodded in understanding.

He met them at midnight in the forest, and they destroyed the items by hellfire. The ring screamed the loudest, piercing through the air and warning away any life that might have come near.

The next morning the Headmaster stood: "A great terror has returned," he announced in a voice that was not loud but carried effortlessly across the room nonetheless, "and the creatures that appeared yesterday were a declaration. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," the room collectively flinched, "has risen once more."

The room was silent.

There was very little spoken for the remainder of the meal.

That night, Harry's nightmares grew even more violent, until the thrashing in his sleep couldn't be stilled by the soft touch of Neville's hands; they increased in intensity every day after that, until two weeks later, the skies above Hogwarts grew dark and the air around them grew cold.

"Oh no he doesn't," Neville murmured, eyes blazing, before walking out to meet the dark lord. He paused at one of the metal knights and carefully took the sword from its unmoving hands before continuing. The crowded hall parted before him and watched, terrified despite being at his back, as flames licked at his feet.

The man stood in an open field, arms held out triumphantly, theatrically, as his Death Eaters surrounded him.

"Is Harry Potter too cowardly to stand before me?" Voldemort asked. His voice was high-pitched and sounded more hiss than human; it was almost a respectable attempt at intimidation, had his audience been anyone else. A large dark-scaled snake rested on his shoulders, wrapping itself around his neck.

"I'm not a coward," Harry said stupidly, bravely, voice strong and face unflinching. He stepped in front of Neville, who let him only because Harry hadn't so much as blinked at his flames, which had since dulled to a subtle flicker.

"Ah," said Voldemort, in a tone that suggested that Harry had just answered a question of extremely mild curiosity, "so here we stand at long last."

"Avada Kedavra," a voice intoned sharply behind them, and Voldemort blocked the spell with a lazy wave of his hand.

"Severus," he frowned, if the expression that his twisted face made could be called as much. "The traitor, uncovered." Their professor began to speak, but it seemed that Neville and Harry were in agreement that hesitation could be their downfall, and that the risk was unnecessary.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried. The snake flew from Voldemort's shoulders, in the direction of the forest, and Neville stepped forwards.

He cleaved his stolen sword through Voldemort's neck.

A pale, snake-like head made a dull thump as it hit the grass. Neville didn't smile, because his teeth would seem just a touch too sharp.

"His snake," Harry said quickly, gesturing towards the trees; Neville nodded, moving alongside his brother. But he looked away for just a second, a second that he knew would stay in his dreams, and Harry fell to the ground with a strained cry.

In seconds, the snake was dead, burnt to nothing but cinders; Neville knelt carefully by his fallen brother and did not move as he saw the blood, the black poison that must have already been making its way through Harry's body, setting it ablaze -

Neville, for the first time, felt human, as a tear fell from his eye and a rotten fist clenched his heart. He knew where his brother was going, his nature would not let him follow.

The grass around them burned as Harry's soul left his body. Neville didn't bother to move as animals ran and trees cracked, ash falling from above. The forest was on fire, a reflection of Neville, as he lost control (he never lost, he let it go -) and the world burned.

His brother was dead.

Harry was dead.

Harry -

took a deep breath in, then coughed.

"Is it -" his dead brother said, sitting up and squinting. "Who caught the Forbidden Forest on fire?"

Neville decided that _this_ was the moment he felt most human, and pulled Harry close.

Together, they breathed, lungs of flesh and lungs of something not quite.

 

 

Later, others would wonder how they had escaped, how they were alive. Harry only ever smiled in response, straight teeth gleaming, and Neville would grin in return, lips sealed tight. 

**Author's Note:**

> the basilisk and neville are friends now bye


End file.
